Accessible design is good design.

“Accessible design is good design.” — Steve Ballmer

In this clear and noble declaration, Steve Ballmer, the spirited leader who once stood at the helm of Microsoft, speaks with the force of both reason and compassion. His words, though forged in the age of technology, carry the timeless wisdom of the ancients — for they remind us that true design serves not the few, but the many; not the privileged, but all of humankind. When Ballmer says, “Accessible design is good design,” he does not speak only of computers or software — he speaks of the eternal principle that all creation should uplift, empower, and include.

For what is design, if not the art of shaping the world for human use? The sculptor molds stone so that it pleases the eye; the architect raises walls to shelter the body; the engineer builds machines to ease labor. Yet the highest form of design — the good design — is that which reaches every soul, regardless of ability or circumstance. Accessibility is not a special feature, nor a favor granted to the few; it is the measure of empathy within invention. It is the designer’s declaration that every person, from the youngest to the frailest, has the right to participate in the beauty and power of creation.

This truth has ancient roots. Long before Ballmer spoke it aloud, the builders of civilizations understood it in their bones. In Athens, the steps of the Parthenon were shallow and broad, so even the weary and old could ascend to honor the gods. In Rome, the engineers who paved the great roads designed them wide and strong, that soldiers and merchants, peasants and nobles alike, could travel together. These were not acts of charity but of wisdom — for a city thrives only when all its citizens can move, speak, and live within it. So too in our modern world: a digital city, a realm of screens and code, must be built for every voice, every hand, every eye.

There is a story told of Doug Engelbart, the inventor of the computer mouse — a tool so simple and humble that few consider its genius. Engelbart’s vision was not of technology for the elite, but for everyone. He dreamed of a future where man and machine could work in harmony, each enhancing the other. In this dream lay the seed of accessible design. His creation made the digital world touchable, intuitive, and human. It transformed computing from a mystery of experts into a tool for the common person — a triumph of inclusion. That same spirit echoes in Ballmer’s words, for both men saw that design is not great when it dazzles the few, but when it empowers the many.

Accessibility, in its deepest sense, is love made practical. It is the acknowledgment that no mind or body should be excluded from the realm of creation. To design with accessibility is to see beyond difference and into the shared essence of being human. It is to say: I see you. I honor your way of moving, of seeing, of hearing, of understanding. And in that act of understanding, art becomes divine. For all greatness — whether in temples, software, or systems — springs from empathy. Without it, design is mere decoration; with it, design becomes legacy.

The lesson is this: in whatever you build — be it a tool, a home, a song, or a life — make it accessible. Ask not how it can impress, but how it can serve. Ask not who will admire it, but who might need it. Let inclusivity be the first blueprint and kindness the final touch. For when your work welcomes all, it becomes more than design — it becomes humanity in motion.

So remember the teaching of Steve Ballmer: “Accessible design is good design.” The greatest creations are not those that exclude, but those that embrace. The mark of a true designer, or a true soul, is not perfection of form, but generosity of function. To make something accessible is to make it meaningful. Build, then, not only with skill, but with compassion — for the world you make shall be measured not by its brilliance alone, but by how many hearts it opens.